Authors: Tim Dorsey
A1A
A
’68 Dodge Monaco raced south.
Mahoney punched buttons on a cell.
Agent Ramirez’s phone rang. He stared at it for the longest time. Mahoney’s name in the display. Then:
“Ramirez.”
“Where are you?” said Mahoney.
“What’s going on?”
“Please don’t hurt Andy.”
“Andy? Why would I do anything to him?”
“You’re the informant.”
“What are you talking about?” said Ramirez. “
I
was the one who told
you
there was an informant.”
“Nice ruse. Like when you’re playing Clue and hold the card for Mr. Mustard but ask other players if they have Mr. Mustard.”
“You’re insane.”
“You’re the one who told Madre about the class ring and the credit card trace.”
“Madre?”
“I know about the convenience store.”
“What convenience store?”
“The work of one of her boys.”
“Her boys?”
“You should be familiar,” said Mahoney. “You’re one of them.”
“What I am familiar with is your hospital stays.”
“Got your juvenile record. Probation lists Juanita as your employer. Fits her MO, grooming young guys out of jail.”
“How many times were you committed?”
“I also know about Andy’s mom. You had a Detroit flight the same day.”
Ramirez’s brain reached overload.
“You still there?” asked Mahoney.
“What do you want?”
“Andy.”
“I have to go.”
“Where are you?”
Click.
The Challenger screamed out of the motel parking lot.
Coleman slammed into the door again. “He told you where they are?”
“No, the fire engine did.”
“What fire engine?”
“Passed our hotel northbound. At that speed and the delay I heard on the phone, it’s a half mile, give or take. Which can mean only one hotel . . .”—a skidding left up a driveway—“. . . This one.”
“But how do you know which room?”
“We’ll just have to play that by ear.”
They jumped from the car.
“Coleman! Watch out!” Serge grabbed his arm and pulled him from the path of a speeding Delta 88 that screeched to a stop in the fire lane.
“What a jerk,” said Coleman.
“Guillermo!” said Serge.
“And there’s Melvin!”
Guillermo entered the lobby. Melvin was two paces in front and one to the right, standard separation for someone at gunpoint, unless the gunman’s left-handed.
Serge and Coleman ran for the entrance.
Behind in the street, squealing tires and rubber smoke. Even in darkness, there was no way Mahoney could mistake the distinct outlines of that odd couple running for the hotel.
The Monaco backed up and whipped into the lot.
Guillermo reached the elevators, holding a black leather briefcase in his left hand and staring up at descending numbers. Serge charged through the front doors and immediately saw the pair on the far side of the lobby. Couldn’t risk an all-out assault with Guillermo’s gun still pointed at Melvin. He broke stride and walked casually toward the elevators, mentally walking through the next few moments: standing next to Guillermo waiting for their lift. “Good evening . . .” Guillermo responding in kind. Then all three getting in the elevator, and only two would get off. Serge just prayed Melvin could hold it together and not give him away.
He was closing fast, walking as briskly as he could without drawing notice. Thirty feet to go. He didn’t count on one thing.
Guillermo and Melvin stepped into an elevator.
“No!” Serge sprinted across the rest of the lobby. The doors closed just before he could stick a hand through the crack and pop them back open.
A thumb mashed the up button.
Coleman arrived. “What’s happening?”
Serge muttered to himself, staring up at ascending numbers.
The next elevator dinged open. “Coleman! Hold that one!”
“I got it.” Coleman stood on the second car’s threshold, its doors repeatedly banging open and closed against his shoulders. “Aren’t you getting in?”
Serge continued staring up. “Just a sec.” The numbers went higher and higher.
Mahoney dashed into the lobby. “Serge!”
Serge watched the elevator numbers pause. “Eighteenth floor!”
He jumped in the second car with Coleman, and the doors closed.
Mahoney ran to the elevators, pressed a button and looked up at numbers.
Agent Ramirez sat on the edge of a bed with eyes closed.
Knock-knock.
Andy flinched. “Who’s that?”
Ramirez didn’t respond, just walked across the room and opened the door.
Guillermo came in with his briefcase and young guest.
“Melvin,” said Andy. “What are you doing here?”
“Not my idea.”
A poke in Melvin’s back. “Over there with your friend.”
He walked toward Andy, revealing the gun behind him.
Guillermo set his briefcase on the dresser. “What’s this business about two Andys?”
“That’s what I need to talk to you about,” said Ramirez.
Guillermo flipped latches and raised the top. “It’s all there, two fifty. You can count if you want.”
Andy backed up against a wall. “Serge was right.”
The agent closed the briefcase.
Guillermo cracked an unfriendly smile. “We always did work on trust.”
“That’s not it,” said Ramirez. “I want to make a deal.”
“Deal?”
“You keep the money. Nobody will ever find out, not even Madre.”
“What do you get?”
“The kids.”
Guillermo laughed.
Andy eyed Ramirez’s weapons spread out on the bed.
“I’m serious,” said the agent. “He was just five at the time, never had anything to do with our business.”
Guillermo turned with his .380 automatic. “Little too late to grow a conscience.”
“Serge was right,” said Ramirez.
“Serge!” said Guillermo. “What is it with that guy?”
“Listen to me,” said the agent. “This accomplishes nothing.”
“Accomplishes revenge.”
“You can’t deposit that in a bank.”
“I always do what Madre wants. You did too, until now.”
Guillermo stepped forward.
Ramirez side-stepped to block his path.
“Have any idea what you’re doing?” said Guillermo.
“This needs to end.”
“You’re making a big mistake. If Madre ever found out you—” Guillermo stopped and smiled again, placing a hand on Ramirez’s shoulder. “I understand this isn’t your territory. Like our trip to Battle Creek. Bothers most people . . .”
“Battle Creek?” said Andy. “What about Battle Creek?”
“. . . So I’m going to forget about this, okay? Now move aside.”
Ramirez didn’t budge.
An elevator opened at the end of the hall. Serge and Coleman jumped out running.
“Which room is it?” asked Coleman.
“I don’t know,” said Serge. “Andy! Andy! Can you hear me? Just yell! . . .”
Guillermo stepped chest-to-chest with Ramirez. Half foot taller. He looked down into the agent’s eyes. “This has become tiresome. Last chance to give you a pass.”
In the next split second, events cascaded.
Ramirez’s eyes briefly glanced toward the bed.
Guillermo caught the look and began raising his gun.
Before he could, Ramirez shoved him hard in the chest. Guillermo stumbled as the agent dove for his weapons.
Guillermo’s automatic and Ramirez’s ankle gun came up at the same time.
Standoff.
They stared without blinking. Ramirez carefully walked backward. “Andy and Melvin, get behind me.”
“Put the gun down,” said Guillermo. “Move away from them.”
Serge reached the west end of the floor and turned down another corridor.
“This hotel’s freakin’ huge,” said Coleman. “How many hallways are there?”
“Too many,” said Serge. “Andy! . . . Andy! . . . Where are you?”
At the east end of the floor, someone in a fedora ran around a corner. “Serge! . . . Andy! . . . Where are you? . . .”
Andy peeked over Ramirez’s shoulder.
“It doesn’t have to end like this,” said Guillermo.
“I might as well be dead,” said Ramirez. “All those horrible things you got me into. This won’t make up for it, but at least it won’t add to it.”
“There’s more money,” said Guillermo. “We should have talked about that earlier. The kid took a lot of work on your part. It’s only fair.”
“Even if I give him up, you’ll still kill me. Maybe not here, now. But you will.”
Still aiming guns, trigger fingers twitching, getting sweaty.
“Nonsense,” said Guillermo, waiting for the slightest distraction to get off the first shot and not take a slug in return. “Even if you don’t trust me, think about it: We’ve got too much invested in you. How will we replace such a valuable asset?”
“My guess is you already have others,” said Ramirez. “I never should have gotten mixed up with your fucking family.”
Guillermo gritted his teeth. Nostrils flared.
Faintly, from outside: “
.. . Andy! Andy!.. .
” The voice trailing off as it went by. “
. . . Call out if you can hear me!. . .
”
“In here!” yelled Andy. “I’m in here!”
S
erge hit the brakes and ran back a few doors.
Coleman crashed into him. “Is this the room?”
“Don’t know . . . Andy! You in there?”
“Serge! Quick!”
Serge threw his shoulder into the door.
Ramirez involuntarily glanced toward the sound.
It was a microsecond, but all the time Guillermo needed. He fired, hitting Ramirez in the stomach. The agent shot back, but he was off balance from the gut wound, and the bullet went wide, splintering through the door.
Serge grabbed his ear and looked at his hand. Blood.
Guillermo’s second shot hit Ramirez’s shooting hand. The gun ricocheted off a wall. Guillermo marched forward, continuing to fire at the defenseless agent.
Ramirez’s mind attained clarity. This was why he was born. Anyone else would have gone down long ago, but with whatever strength the agent had left, he willed himself to remain an upright human shield for the two boys.
More shooting, now from two directions: Guillermo riddling Ramirez, and outside the room, where Serge blew the doorknob off.
Guillermo’s next shot struck Ramirez in the forehead, dropping him like an anvil.
No place for Andy and Melvin to hide.
Guillermo pulled the trigger.
Click.
“Shit.” He replaced the clip.
Another shot from the hall blew the deadbolt halfway across the room.
Guillermo aimed between Andy’s eyes.
Serge kicked the door open and fired.
The bullet struck Guillermo’s arm from behind, spinning him. He returned fire as Serge ducked out of the doorway.
Serge hit the ground in the hall and poked his gun around the door frame, aiming at an upward angle so if he missed Guillermo, stray lead wouldn’t hit the kids.
He didn’t miss. The second shot hit Guillermo in the same arm. It pissed him off. He switched the gun to his left hand.
There are two distinct types of firefights: police and military.
Police take up defensive positions behind squad car doors and trees. Military strategy is to overrun the enemy. Guillermo favored the latter. He ran for the hall, firing on the way.
Serge retreated, shooting behind him without aim. He turned the corner and joined Coleman, who’d already ducked down another corridor. They pressed themselves hard against the wall. Plaster exploded past their heads.
Back in the room, Andy was paralyzed, staring at a side view of Guillermo in the hall, framed by the open door. Blasting away toward Serge and Coleman.
Andy surprised himself with what he did next. Almost like an out-of-body experience, looking down from the ceiling observing someone else. He dove for the bed, grabbed Ramirez’s nine-millimeter Glock and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened.
He turned the gun over and back in confusion. TV cop shows ran through his head. “Don’t they pull some kind of slide thing to load a bullet?”
Guillermo emptied his gun again. The ejected clip bounced on the carpet as another magazine slammed home.
Andy watched out the door as Guillermo pulled a slide thing. He looked down at his own gun and followed the example.
“He’s changing out clips,” Serge told Coleman. “Now’s our chance!” Serge reached around the corner. A bullet whistled by before he could get off a round. He jumped back. “Faster than I thought.”
Guillermo heard sirens coming up A1A. Then he heard something slam into the wall behind his neck. He looked at the bullet hole, then turned quickly to trace the line of fire to its source: an open-mouthed Andy, stunned that the gun in his hand had actually gone off.
He raised his pistol toward the boy. A bullet ripped into Guiller-mo’s thigh from Serge’s direction.
“Son of a bitch!”
“Is he still up?” asked Coleman.
“Guy’s like a Frankenstein.”
Andy fired again, but Guillermo had disappeared from the doorway, racing toward Serge’s position.
Serge peeked around the corner. “Shit. Run!”
They took off down the second corridor, Serge again shooting wildly behind them.
Guillermo reached the corner in full psychopathic bloom. He fired over and over at the retreating pair, but handgun accuracy delivers rapidly diminishing returns over distance. A hail of bullets from both directions passed each other in the middle of the hall and hit nothing but walls and fire extinguishers.
At the other end of the hall a man in a fedora rounded the corner. One of Guillermo’s last bullets found a target. Mahoney went down, grabbing his calf.
Serge heard the gunfire end. “Why’s he stopping?”
Guillermo turned in the middle of the hall and reversed field.
“He’s going back for the boys!” Serge crouched for a steady shot.
Click.
“I’m out!”
“Serge!”
He turned.
“Mahoney, what are you doing down there?”
“Catch!”
Serge grabbed a .38 police special out of the air and sprinted back toward the room, where Andy was slapping the side of his gun. Jammed. Actually he’d just accidentally hit the safety. He heard something in the hall and looked up. Guillermo grinned wickedly and took aim. “Good night.” He pulled the trigger.
A ceiling lamp shattered. Andy covered his head as glass rained. Guillermo continued twirling in the hall from Serge’s well-timed slug in his unwounded arm, which had sent Guillermo’s last shot high into the lighting fixture.
“Motherfuck!”
Louder sirens. Then they stopped. Which meant they were here.
Guillermo had never taken such a beating before. He emptied his gun in Serge’s direction and limped away for the fire escape.
“Coleman! He left!” Serge ran to the doorway. “Let’s go, kids.”
They all fled through the corridor where Mahoney had been hit.
“You going to be okay?” asked Serge.
“Don’t move,” said Mahoney.
“What are you doing?”
“Guillermo’s gone now, and the kids are safe.” Mahoney aimed his backup piece. “You’re under arrest.”
“That’s fair. I know our rules, but . . .”—he gestured with an upturned palm at two peach-faced students—“. . . They’re
not
safe. Guillermo and Madre are still out there, and who knows who else they have inside. You know I’m their best bet. Another time?”
Mahoney kept steady aim, then lowered the gun. “Get the hell out of my sight.”
The entire building had heard the gunfire. Nine-one-one operators and the hotel’s front desk became swamped with freaked-out calls that placed the shooting on almost every floor. First officers at the scene were spread thin as they responded to a dozen false locations.
Guillermo grabbed a bath towel from a cleaning cart and wrapped it around his shoulders—one of the least noticeable people as he casually escaped out the pool deck in a multi-directional stampede of screaming sunbathers.
Serge’s group caught a break with the service elevator. They ran into the kitchen.
Chefs had armed themselves with their largest carving knives. “What the hell are you guys doing in here?”
Serge, still running, pointed behind him. “Someone’s shooting!”
The trio pushed open a steel door to the loading dock with a box compactor and crates of rotten lettuce.
“What now?” asked Andy.
Serge looked up the alley toward the front of the hotel and the back edge of a growing throng of onlookers.
“If we just can get into that crowd . . .”
More and more squad cars screamed into the parking lot.
The quartet watched from the rear of the mob, then slowly retreated across the street.
Back up in the blood-soaked room, two hands grabbed a briefcase.
BAHIA CABANA
City and Country were bored, starved and car-less.
They had clicked the remote through all TV channels ten times.
Serge ran into the room.
City jumped up. “Where the fuck have you been?”
“Someplace.” He ran for the sink, stuck his face down and splashed water.
“Holy Jesus! What did you do to your ear?” said Country.
“What the hell happened to Andy and Melvin?” said City.
The pair collapsed on the couch, pale as they come.
“Give ’em space.” Serge held paper towels to the side of his head. “They just had a close one.”
Andy stared at nothing. Shock suddenly gave way to delayed emotion. Weeping and shaking.
Serge sat and put an arm around his shoulders. “It’s okay.”
“I’m so sorry. Should have listened to you. I almost got us all killed.”
“That part wasn’t good.”
“Swear I won’t screw up again.”
“You can relax—you’re safe now.”
Andy sniffled and wiped his eyes. “But what about Guillermo? He’s still out there.”
“You leave that to me.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Andy, I have to tell you something. This might not be the best time, considering what you just went through, but I’d want to know if I was in your shoes.”
“What is it?”
“It can wait till later. Just let me know when you’re ready.”
“I’m good now.”
“You sure? It’s pretty heavy.”
Andy nodded.
“Your mother.”
“What about her?”
“Andy . . . I’m just going to say it. She didn’t kill herself.”
“Of course she killed herself. She shot—” He stopped and read Serge’s face. “Are you saying she was murdered?”
“Afraid there’s not much of a happy distinction between the two. But you’ve been under the impression all these years that she lingered through prolonged suffering and put herself out of misery.”
“She wasn’t sick?”
Serge shook his head. “Some of the happiest years of her life. And if it’s any consolation”—Serge crossed his fingers behind his back— “Ramirez told me she never heard it coming. Almost like going in her sleep.”
“Ramirez killed her?”
Serge shook his head again. “Like I said, you leave that to me.”
“Guillermo?”
Serge pulled the pistol from under his shirt for a tear-down mechanism check.
Andy remembered something, feeling the bottom of his own shirt and Ramirez’s Glock, which he’d concealed underneath in all the excitement. He decided not to bring it up. “What are you planning to do?”
Serge reassembled the gun. “I’m foreclosing on his karma.”